Soul's Memory
by cm1874
Summary: A Snape Redemption Story. All salt. No sugar. This story may be redeemed for one Snape. No retail value. Can be exchanged, at our discretion, for a character of equal or lesser value.
1. Prologue: The Watcher

The room was lit only by the swirling green light of the two Pensieves. Fog billowed off one, and a mass of silver strands coiled over and around each other deep inside. The other Pensieve stood empty, emitting only a dull olive-green glow.

The wizard, the Watcher, worked in solitude. It was meticulous work and his hands shook slightly. He had been working for over an hour, and time was short. But he never faltered, never stopped. Over and over he brought his wand to his ear, and pulled another silver strand from his memory. He caught each glowing thread lightly, and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

_Lily._ He had identified eight hundred and ninety-one memories that could betray him. Nearly nine hundred pieces of thought, which if uncovered, could lead to his death and the likely end of the world. It was shocking, then, that only twenty-nine of those memories were about Lily. There were days, after all, when he hated Dumbledore with a burning passion. And truthfully, he hated Harry Potter every day. But the memory of his soul--the only memory he could hide--remembered Lily as if it were yesterday.

This was the eight hundred and ninety first memory, but the night was young and the damage needed to be done before dawn. _Memory_, he snorted. This one was no real memory; it was a fantasy, but one he had replayed so often that he had for a time convinced himself that it could maybe, possibly, one day come true. _Convincing, indeed_, he mocked himself, _with all those qualifiers._ This fantasy was particularly damning, if you knew what to look for. He rubbed it again, and remembered.

The surroundings were indistinct; he had played out this particular sick delusion on the beach, in a bar, and on crowded streets. Lily and James Potter walked down the street, arm in arm. He was the appointed Watcher, and so followed closely behind, waiting for the violence to start. And it did: the windows on a nearby house burst out, spewing drops of molten glass on the passersby.

"Lily!" shrieked James. "Get down!" The Dark Mark grew, etched in the sky, and the Death Eaters, laughing, erupted out of the ruined house. Lucius Malfoy saw the Potters first.

"Well, well," Lucius rumbled. "It looks like we found ourselves a little bit of a bonus." In a trice, the Potters were surrounded, stripped of their wands, and magically bound. The Watcher didn't close ranks with his fellow Death Eaters, but he observed.

"Lily," cooed Bellatrix. "I just love what you've done with your hair. But my mother taught me a beauty spell. I bet it would improve your looks." Bellatrix stood back, brandishing her wand. "Crucio!" And Lily screamed, every muscle tensing. The magical bonds kept her from falling to the ground, but she wept and tossed against them.

"No!" shouted James.

"Oh, Jamesy," sighed Bellatrix. "You will have your turn. But first, you'll watch Lily." Bellatrix dipped her wand, ending the spell, and Lily slumped, sobbing. "There," said Bellatrix. "I thought that what you needed was a little more pain. It really brings out the bloom in your cheeks, you know. But the effects are fading already. Perhaps we should do it again?"

Before Bellatrix could act on her threat, a fourth Death Eater shoved his way into the group. "Shit, Bell. Dumbledore's on his way," Antonin warned. "We better finish this fast."

"Allow me, Dolohov." Lucius intervened. He pointed his wand at Lily. "Avada Kedavra!" he shouted. And somehow, James broke through his magical bonds. As the killing green light flashed towards Lily, James threw himself in front of her. And the Watcher--he _was_ a Watcher, and therefore sensitive to the magic of the soul--saw what the others could not.

James, that stupid brave sot, threw his life away without thought to the powerful residue that remained. (_This_, thought the Watcher as he remembered, _was always a favorite part of his fantasia--James Potter's death._) The most powerful magics were wrought with newly sundered souls. The lightest of those spells were forged with lives given freely. The dark ones, of course, were built with lives taken by force. But the darkest of the dark spells grasped the power released by a life given for another, and used it to bend reality to their will.

The few people who could sense soul's magic would have understood the silent spell that the Watcher cast using James' senseless sacrifice. If they had a soul to see, they would have seen the Watcher use the power given by James. They would have seen him take hold of the love between James and Lily. That love was twisted, wrenched, and used to extinguish everything good in Lily. _Some magic, after all, was worse than unforgivable._

"Thank God," the new Lily said, as James' body fell to the ground. "He was getting to be such a pain." The Watcher, silently, cut her bonds. Lily stepped free, and walked over to the Watcher, while the other Death Eaters watched in surprise.

"So," she said, offering him her arm. "Tell me how I can pledge my soul to Voldemort."

He, curse him for a fool, kissed her cheek and took her away.

The Watcher shuddered out of the fantasy. _If only they had died in that manner_, he thought. _If only James had the gumption to die for Lily in real life._ But no. It hadn't really been like that. _No. Instead, she bound me with her death._

This daydream wasn't difficult to doctor. Chances were, in fact, that Voldemort would never be able to see soul's magic again. Voldemort had cut, crossed, and adulterated his soul so many times that he demonstrably didn't recognize the subtle forms of soul's magic when it was performed right in front of his nose. But nothing could be left to chance; when the world is on the line, an abundance of caution is indicated.

"Duplis," the Watcher whispered, tapping the memory. It shimmered, coiled, and split in two. One of the silver threads was dropped into the empty Pensieve, where it hissed, sputtered, and began to emit a light fog. He tapped the other memory with his wand. "Alterio." Like that, he spliced the ending away. In the new ending, Lily was less willing, and the Watcher did substantially more than watch. _Still_, he apologized to Lily, _it's not as if the old fantasy respected your wishes and your boundaries. And this is no time to respect any boundaries at all, not if you want your son to survive._ That was, after all, what his war was about. For everyone else, it was about the Boy Who Lived. He was, he imagined, the only person in the world who remembered the Mother Who Died.

_One down; eight hundred and ninety to go._ He pulled another silver thread from the roiling Pensieve.

He worked throughout the night, the new memories slipping into his head one by one. His soul remembered who he was, remembered the debt that he owed. But he found himself becoming more and more the Death Eater that he only pretended to be. The truth of the matter, he admitted to himself, was that he could not afford to hide his thoughts from Voldemort. He was, he humbly admitted, only the world's greatest occlumens. And, he humbly admitted, the world's greatest occlumens could assuredly put off the world's second-greatest legilimens. But Voldemort would want to know why.

"Dark Lord," he imagined himself saying, "I can't possibly let you know what I'm thinking, because I'm plotting your death. It was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday. With candles. And a dancing gorilla." It didn't go over well, not even in his imagination. Voldemort had no sense of humor. Thought by thought, he doctored away the evidence that he had been hiding for so many years. Eight hundred and ninety-one truths needed to be shaded, filled in, or otherwise destroyed. The twenty-ninth memory of Lily--her actual death--needed only slight alteration. But he obliterated some conversations with Dumbledore entirely.

_Ah_, the Watcher thought, as he spliced his last memory of Dumbledore. _I had forgotten. Voldemort is now the world's greatest legilimens. Not second-best any longer._ Maybe the Watcher's hands shook when he slipped the altered memory back into his brain; maybe his eyes watered. Or maybe not, for he never slowed, and never fumbled.

Hours passed, and the Watcher watched, and edited, and taught himself falsehoods. Finally, the last gleaming thread was duplicated; the last alteration performed. The first Pensieve, once filled with memories, sat empty. The second, once-empty Pensieve now boiled over with silver threads. And his mind teemed with falsehoods. For now, he could remember that they were false. For now, he could remember what he needed to do to finish the task at hand. The Watcher stood, stretched. "Lumos." A bright flare of light burst from his wand. The room suddenly stood out in sharp focus--a narrow bed, a small table containing one empty Pensieve and one billowing one, a desk with a jumble of scrolls and a self-inking quill. The Watcher pushed up the sleeves of his black robe, and sat down at the desk.

_Parchment, parchment. Blank piece of parchment?_ He found one, underneath a grotty copy of _Poisonous Potions and How to Administer Them._

_Dear Miss Granger_, he wrote. _You have no reason to trust me, and every reason to wish me harm. As you will see from these thoughts, I am on your side. I trust that you will keep these memories close to your heart. Share as you think fit, but be careful--the Dark Lord has spies everywhere. I have destroyed or altered the originals. You'll have to verify my research. I can think of nobody else qualified. For that reason, I give you my password. You'll need to access the restricted portion of the library . . . ._

The Watcher scratched on, and finally stood up. "Incendio." He tapped the letter, and it burst into flame. Satisfied, he pulled the memory of writing the letter from his head. Another tap, and the memory turned bright green; when he slipped it into the full Pensieve, pregnant with duplicated memories, it shone like a snake in a sea of silver.

_Almost there._ A simple concealment charm turned the boiling Pensieve into a gazing ball, silver with a single green line inked across its surface. A shrinking spell shrunk the sphere to the size of a small marble. The Watcher gestured, and the shutters of his window opened. It was a warm summer night--soon, he gathered from the violet hints in the east, to be a hot summer day. Next to the silver marble, he added a feather, a sprinkling of dust from a container labeled "Powdered Eye of Newt," and finally, a single strand of curly brown hair. A flask in his pocket unstoppered to reveal a brilliant blue cordial. And there--just a drop, as the first rays of morning light hit the glinting sphere.

The ball shimmered, grew wings, and hovered in the air. "Go to her, then," he whispered. Away winged all of his secrets. He watched the messenger glint, like a snitch made of silver, until it passed beyond the trees. It would take weeks to arrive, of course. But the Dark Lord's wards would have detected a more powerful spell, and owls were searched thoroughly.

He had worked through the night, and was deathly tired. But tasks remained. The shutters closed, and he climbed into bed. "Obliterus," he commanded, and the empty Pensieve crumbled to dust. In the final hours before the household woke, he extruded one final memory: The memory of tonight, of the damage he had wrought upon his psyche. "Obliterus," he whispered again, and like that, all traces of his night's work disappeared.

The Watcher felt despair and confusion as he looked up to the ceiling. _Who am I? What do I want? Who do I serve? And why is the light on?_

The last, he could take care of. _Let there be darkness_, he thought grimly. "Nox." _And there was dark._

Several hours later, the door swung open, and another black-robed man stepped inside.

"Wake up, Severus!" laughed Antonin Dolohov, seating himself on the chair. "I hear that you killed Dumbledore last night. The Dark Lord just arrived, and he wants to hear all about it."


	2. Chapter 1: Gift's End

Heat rose from the baking floor of the garden outside the Burrow. The seats that had been conjured in concentric circles around the stone table were magically cooled, but even the Cooling Charm had little effect. The creatures of the wood were too smart to venture out in this weather. Even the gnomes were silent.

_Everything else has hunkered down, avoiding the heat_, Ron Weasley thought, ignoring the words of the ceremony. _But we are simply too stupid to conform our behavior to nature. Why am I here again?_ It was an ungenerous thought; he still didn't believe that his brother was marrying the most beautiful woman that Ron had ever seen. Of course, the date had been set weeks before anyone expected the heat wave, and it was simply too late to change once matters were set in motion. There was no more backing out--not even for Bill, who had looked a little green this morning.

Ron stood up front, paired with Fleur's younger sister, Gabrielle. He was tricked out in the dress robes the twins had bought him a few years ago, magically altered to fit his growing frame. Fleur, naturally, was beautiful, dressed in a simple white silk dress. Bill was . . . a polite way of describing him would be _rugged_. The scars that Fenrir Grayback had given him were mostly healed, at least. So far, he had shown no signs of lycanthropy. But Bill and Fleur had chosen to be wed during a new moon just to be safe.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," said Professor McGonagall, who was performing the ceremony. Bill and Fleur kissed, and that was that. Ron's ceremonial duties were over, and as soon as he could, he planned to shuck his heavy dress robes and join the party. _Some party_, Ron thought bitterly. They were a dreary lot. Most of the attendees were members of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore's death--and Snape's treachery--sat heavily on all their hearts.

As for his best friends . . . Well, Ron, Harry, and Hermione had spent the last few weeks in cramped quarters, living at the Dursleys. The Dursleys pretended they didn't exist, which seemed to suit Harry just fine. Nonetheless, a Muggle household--a virulently anti-magic Muggle household--did not a fine vacation make. No chess. No Exploding Snap. Nothing to do but sit and think about the coming conflict. All in all, nobody was particularly happy; not even Fleur Delacour. _Fleur Weasley, now_, Ron corrected himself.

But first things first. Ron approached Fleur, and hugged her and kissed her cheek. "Welcome to the family!" he declared. She hugged him back, and for a second, Ron felt an almost infinitesimal jolt of jealousy. Hermione, who had also come up to congratulate the couple, looked peeved. Ron grinned at her. _Maybe Fleur's not so beautiful._

"Congratulations," he said to Bill, "But I'm going to go change before I melt in this heat." Bill rolled his eyes, but was too busy thanking other well-wishers to stop him. As Ron pushed through the congratulatory crowd, he caught snippets of conversation.

"Well," sighed Lupin to Ron's dad, "There's good news and there's bad news."

"We need some good news," his father sighed fervently. "What is it?"

"The Dementors returned to Azkaban."

"That _is_ good. What's the bad news?"

"They only came back to break out the Death Eaters. Lucius Malfoy escaped, along with--"

The rest of the conversation trailed off as Ron pushed through the crowd. And then he was out of the press of people, and running off to the Burrow. It was the work of several short moments to shuck off his heavy robes and duck into a pair of worn brown corduroy pants and a white shirt. He raced downstairs again, eager to rejoin the throng. But he stopped short. Hermione and Harry were waiting with Professor Lupin in the kitchen.

"It's time," said Lupin.

"What? We're going back to Privet Drive already?" asked Ron.

"No, silly," replied Hermione. "It's time to visit Godric's Hollow. Now, when the Death Eaters think that we're here, at the wedding. We won't have very long, so we need to leave now."

Remus Lupin pulled a thin wooden box from his pocket and opened it up to reveal a large silver key. "It's a Portkey," he explained. "Tonks will meet us there. She and Mad-Eye have already secured the area. Gather around, and on the count of three."

Ron crowded in closely. "One, two, three!" he counted. He and his friends grabbed hold of the portal.

Meetings had changed since the Dark Lord returned to power. Snape--who prided himself on his organized mind--identified the differences in his head. First, the Dark Lord, was sitting in a comfortable chair drinking tea. Second, the Death Eaters were not meeting in a dank cave with bats swooping around their heads. Instead, they lounged about a fire on black leather armchairs, eating scones. Third--third--

"More clotted cream, Severus?" inquired Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord had never cared much for his appearance, and it was a good thing. His robes were clean, at least for now, but he never wore anything other than black. Death and dark magic had not been kind to his complexion, either; his skin scaled and cracked, and his eyes burned a deep red. At least Voldemort had the good sense to glove his long, scaly fingers.

"No, thank you."

The truth was that nobody had been seduced into following the Dark Lord with promises of ruling a dungeon filled with bats and skeletons and chains. Power in and of itself was enough to motivate Lord Voldemort. (Snape had once asked, "What do you want all this power for?" The Dark Lord had found the question baffling. "More power," he'd finally replied.) But regular wizards required additional incentives. Clean linen helped. As did promises of sumptuous dinners, gold, jewels, and sexual pleasure. Really, recruiting Death Eaters wasn't so different from seducing women. Not that Snape knew anything about the latter.

Every month the Dark Lord had organizational meetings, and the Death Eaters brainstormed plots. Last month, they had discussed plots to bust loyal followers of Lord Voldemort out of Azkaban, for instance. _Successfully_, Snape added, as he looked around the room. Previous discussions had included plots to bamboozle Harry Potter into falling into their clutches, for instance. And plots to kill, replace, or otherwise control high-ranking Ministry officials. In the first war, before the Dark Lord was forced into hiding, they had worn masks and concealing robes to these meetings. But at this point, everyone in the room had laid their shoulders bare, so to speak. The Mark burned Dark; there was no longer any question where their loyalties lay. And so the disguises were no longer deemed necessary. With the need for disguise went much of the discomfort. _Or_, Snape amended, _the physical discomfort._

Today, the usual Inner Circle was present: Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and of course, himself, Severus Snape. Vincent Crabbe, Senior, guarded the door. But there was one addition. Seated carefully on the edge of the leather sofa, as far as he could get from the other Death Eaters, was young Draco Malfoy. He half-heartedly picked at his scone; when he lifted his tea cup to his mouth, he barely wet his lips.

"Our item for this month's brainstorming--" whispered Lord Voldemort. The effect was electric. All discussion cut off abruptly. Even the soft sigh of chairs shifting underneath the Death Eaters' weight vanished. When it was clear that Lord Voldemort had everyone's attention (by Snape's estimation, three milliseconds had elapsed), he continued. "Our item for this month's brainstorming is the troubling matter of Harry Potter. We've finally figured out, thanks to Severus, that the reason we've been bumbling is not wholly due to your inept attempts to capture and kill a sixteen-year-old boy of no particular wizarding ability."

The Dark Lord paused. Perhaps he was waiting for someone to dispute his description? No. Inept they might all be. But nobody in the room was foolish.

"It turns out," Voldemort continued, slightly disappointed, "Lily Potter, when she died, cast some kind of protection spell." An airy wave of the Dark Lord's gloved hand accompanied this last. Voldemort found white magic wholly uninteresting. "So long as Harry Potter is a child, and so long as he spends some time every year around his mother's kin, the protection continues. This is suboptimal. Ideas?"

A brief pause.

"Erm, maybe this is too simple," said Bellatrix. "But you said the protection continued so long as Potter's a child. But he'll be seventeen in a little more than three weeks. Why don't we wait until he becomes an adult, swoop in, and have you kill him by your own hand?"

"No, Bell," said Antonin Dolohov. "We already decided against pitched battles. They're expecting us to attack when he hits majority, you know. Aurors will be covering Harry like fleas on a dog. We hadn't expected our last confrontation to take so many of our number, but it did."

"That's true," added Lucius. "We'd have to attack on their ground, spring their traps, fight all their people, protect our, uh"--here he nodded at Voldemort--"Great Lord and Master, make it to Harry Potter, and then perform a ceremony. Too risky. Too many variables."

Lord Voldemort sat silent.

"What about if we cast a protective spell around you?" suggested Lucius, looking at Lord Voldemort. "You know--Harry's mum died for him. We'd all be willing to die for you. So let's have--uh, let's have Vincent Crabbe die for your benefit. Then your spell counteracts Harry's, and it's just your wizardry against his. We know who'd win there."

Crabbe, Senior, standing guard at the door, looked mutinous. "If you'll excuse my saying so, I always thought, sir, as how Gregory Goyle was superior at dying. Sir. More practice, as they say."

More silence.

"Severus, is this sort of spell even _possible_?" Voldemort asked.

"Well, yes. But the problem is that protective spells only act as shields, not swords. If you have a protective spell around you, it'll protect you if others attack, but it won't help you if you go on the offensive. Protective spells are white magic. They only work in one direction."

"Argh," muttered Voldemort, rubbing his temples. Flakes of something that looked like chalk crumbled where his fingers rasped against his forehead. "This is why I detest white magic. So _limited_."

"But isn't," asked Dolohov, "there some kind of equivalent Dark Magic soul spell that we can use for aggression? You know, kill someone, make a big weapon? If Potter's got the equivalent of a counter-curse stuck to him, like a birthmark, we just need a counter-counter-curse."

Snape pondered. There _was_, he thought, a piece of soul's magic that would give the Dark Lord the appropriate counter-curse, the sword that would cut through Harry's magical protection. All he had to do was open his mouth and explain it. And didn't he want Harry dead? Didn't he want the Dark Lord to succeed? _Yes_, he answered. _I do. I want Harry to die, which means that I need to figure out how to counteract Lily's last gift._ But the idea didn't appeal to him. He'd be working the soul's magic, and he found himself displeased with the idea. "If you had ever worked with the subtleties of soul's magic," Snape found himself replying silkily, "you'd know better. Soul's magic just doesn't work like that." _I lied. Why did I lie?_

"I know. More death; less magic," suggested Lucius. "We waltz in, _Avada Kedavra_ the Muggle family, thus cutting off Potter's protection. Then we make off with the boy."

"We've tried that already," sighed Bellatrix, "and it didn't work. I suspect that the stupid protection spell protects all Lily's blood. Not just Harry. All of them."

The Death Eaters looked to Snape. Snape shrugged, and nodded. There was a long pause while all the Death Eaters attempted to look as if they were thinking.

"Poisoned peppermints?" suggested Lucius, when the silence had grown too long. Nobody bothered to dignify this with an answer. "Peppermint Portkey?" Still no response. "Dragon, transfigured to look like a peppermint?" No answer. "They don't need to be peppermints. Every Flavor Beans, now--"

_Why_, Snape wondered, _do I feel that I shouldn't contribute? Am I not a loyal Death Eater?_ He supported--he remembered supporting--Lord Voldemort. Didn't he? _If you support him_, Snape challenged himself, _then prove it._ And in that instant, Snape saw the answer to the problem. Before his strange doubts could intervene, he spoke up. "The protection that Potter's mother gave him is magical. And so it protects Potter against magic."

"Brilliant." Lucius snarled, sarcastically.

Lord Voldemort motioned with his finger. _Go on._

"We've tried to get to Harry Potter with magic. And it didn't work, because the magic always backfires. What if we try to get them with Muggle devices? I'm sure Muggles have some primitive way to kill each other."

Bellatrix looked as if she had accidentally licked Voldemort's flaking forehead. "You want _us_ to act like _Muggles?_"

"Really, Severus," said Antonin Dolohov, "I have no idea if Muggles can kill effectively, but we can't possibly waste our time learning their"--here, he hooked his thumbs together and flapped his hands like wings--"ineffectual attempts to duplicate the Killing Curse? We've got so much else to do."

"Plus," added Lucius, "They're Muggles."

"We could pay Muggles who already know how to kill," replied Snape calmly.

"They're still Muggles."

"All the better!" interrupted Lord Voldemort. "Kill them afterwards. There's a nice symmetry--use the Muggles to kill Harry Potter so nobody can threaten me. Then rule over the Muggles with a fist of iron. It could work."

Snape was pleased. He _was_ pleased, he told himself firmly. He promised himself that he was pleased. He had figured out a way to destroy Harry Potter without risking loyal Death Eaters. This was a Good Thing. _Or is it?_ No, no, and a thousand times no. He refused to answer his doubts. _These doubts will disappear in time. It must be the weather. Or the scones. Or something._

"Severus," Lord Voldemort continued, "Set the plan in motion. Think hours, not weeks. We don't have weeks. Start. Immediately." That was their cue to leave, and the Death Eaters all stood up. But when Snape had his hands on the doorknob, the Dark Lord spoke again. "Ah yes. I had nearly forgotten." He had _not_, and they all knew it. "Draco, show me your arm."

Draco walked closer to Lord Voldemort and rolled up the sleeve of his robe. Etched in outline form on his shoulder was a faint version of the Dark Mark. "Do you know why," Voldemort asked conversationally, "your Mark hasn't brightened yet?"

Draco nodded.

"And why is that?"

"B-b-because I need a death to seal in the Dark Mark."

"You need to kill," corrected Lord Voldemort. "And that reminds me of something else I had nearly forgotten. I recall that I told you to kill, didn't I?"

"Dumbledore is dead!" protested Draco.

"Not by your hand, though. Not by your hand. See here, boy. I will give you another chance. I will give you an easy chance. Accompany Severus here, and when it's time to kill the Muggles, do so. Is that so hard?" Draco shook his head mutely. "Good," whispered Lord Voldemort. "Because if you don't, I'm going to kill your young friend, Vincent Crabbe, Junior."

Crabbe, Senior, standing by the door, jumped. "What did you say?"

"Nothing, Vincent. Nothing at all."

Godric's Hollow was a tiny Muggle town by the sea. It was significantly cooler than the Burrow had been, a fact for which Hermione was thankful. Down its one main street stood a fishmonger, a pharmacy, a green grocer, and a church. It had not taken long, Hermione thought wistfully, to visit the small two-story cottage where Voldemort had attacked Harry's parents.

"Do you remember any of this?" she had asked Harry. He had shaken his head.

"I thought," Harry had replied after a few moments, "that everything would come clear if I visited here, where everything started. But it's still hazy. I don't know why." He grimaced.

Hermione had exchanged a glance with Ron. "Do you think," Ron had asked carefully, "that You-Know-Who maybe gave you the idea to come here? That this might be a trap?"

Harry had turned pale. "I don't think so," he had finally whispered. "It's not like any of the visions I had about the Department of Mysteries. But I don't know if I can trust myself any longer."

They had returned to the main thoroughfare and purchased fish and chips. Ron was currently trying to distract Harry by talking about Quidditch. Harry, Hermione noticed, was not really listening.

"So," Ron concluded, with forced enthusiasm, "I really think that the Chudley Cannons have one of the best line-ups I've seen in recent years."

_As if we'll be around to see it_, Hermione added mentally.

But Harry wasn't even paying that much attention. He turned abruptly to Remus Lupin. "Tell me about my parents and Godric's Hollow."

Lupin shut his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. "I should have known that you would ask. I didn't know that they had come here, of course," he explained. "But I did know that they had to go into hiding. Sometime in mid-October, we received a message warning us that the Potters would be targeted." He frowned. "Dumbledore passed it on. I wasn't there at the time; the message came at night, during a full moon, and I was . . . ." Lupin paused, and Hermione understood that he had been transformed into a wolf that night. "But I remember that the messenger said that the Potters should be separated for their safety--Lily and James and you, Harry--each to a different part of the country.

"Lily and James, of course, would not have agreed to such a plan. You were too young, Lily said, to entrust you to the care of a stranger. And so they had the idea to hide the three of you, using Sirius as a Secret Keeper. That's all I knew. After I found out that they had chosen Peter Pettigrew instead of Sirius, I wondered whether Lily and James suspected that I was the one that had betrayed them to Lord Voldemort. After all, I really couldn't control myself for a few nights every month."

Hermione shook her head, but Lupin didn't seem to notice.

"I think you know what happened next. Or you know as well as I do. Pettigrew betrayed their secret to Lord Voldemort. And"--Lupin's voice cracked--"you lived."

"Can I see their grave?"

Lupin nodded, and led the way behind the church. The building was old, but cheery. Wild flowers grew along the edges of the cemetary. Lupin strode between the gravestones, and finally stopped before one grave. The weeds had been recently trimmed, and someone had planted a rose bush. Harry knelt by the edge of the grave.

"Who's been taking care of it?" he asked.

"I have," said Lupin. "But your Aunt Petunia planted the roses."

Harry looked surprised. But what he finally asked was: "Why did my mum marry my dad? Did she love him?"

"Of course," responded Lupin simply.

"But S--I mean, someone told me they argued all the time at Hogwarts."

Lupin laughed. "Harry, how many times have you and Ron argued? Or Ron and Hermione? Love doesn't mean you don't argue. Love just knows how to make up when you do." Hermione felt her cheeks flush, and she made sure that she looked straight at Lupin.

But Harry just frowned, and shut his eyes.

"D'you think he wants to be by himself?" whispered Ron.

"I'm not sure," responded Hermione, still avoiding Ron's gaze. Harry's fists clenched and Hermione started forward. But as she did, she saw something. It was not, she thought, something that she saw with her outward eye. It was almost as if a thin pink fog lifted away from Harry and dissipated into the atmosphere. _What was that?_

"I'm cold," said Harry. "All over. All of a sudden. Something is wrong. We have to--we have to go back to Privet Drive."

"What is it?" Ron asked.

"I don't know, but we have to go back."

"Are you sure this isn't a trap, too?" asked Hermione.

Harry shook his head. "I'm not sure--but--I'm just not sure."

"I'll get Tonks and Mad-Eye," Lupin promised.

A short while later, the five of them gathered around Lupin. He removed a second box from his pocket, which opened to reveal a gold key. "You're all not old enough to officially Apparate, even though you've all had lessons," he explained grimly, "But if I give you the word when we arrive, you will go back to the Burrow. No hesitation. No heroics. All the best wizards in the Order are still there. Got it?" They nodded. "Count of three."

Once again, the world swirled. An instant later, they were deposited in the Dursley's backyard. Hermione recognized the undulating scream of an approaching ambulance. Through the hedges, she saw three police cars parked out front. Mrs. Prentice, the Dursley's neighbor, was speaking loudly and excitedly.

"I heard gun shots, and I ran to investigate," Hermione heard. "I saw them, lying on the floor. Dudley was bleeding. I heard someone go out the back way, but I didn't see who it was. I imagine that it was the nephew. What was his name? Horace? Harry? He must have finally cracked. He's been attending St. Brutus' Academy for Incurably Criminal Boys. I don't think Petunia trusted him."

Harry stepped back, horrified.

"We need to get out of here," whispered Lupin. "Back to the Burrow. All of you--now!" Harry and Ron disappeared with a crack; when Hermione hesitated, Lupin motioned frantically with his hands. She, too, Apparated.

"What," asked Lupin when they'd all gathered around the Weasley's kitchen again, "is a gunshot?"

"A gun's a Muggle device," said Harry dully. "It's used to kill people."

"Do you think they're--" started Hermione, and then remembered what she had seen, but not quite seen, in the cemetary at Godric's Hollow. A pink fog, lifting off of Harry. _His mother's blood protected him_, she realized. She answered herself. "They're gone. The Dursleys. They've been killed."

"Why would Muggles want to kill the Dursleys?" wondered Ron.

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."

Billy and Joe strode into the alley, unconcerned. Joe carried a pistol in a holster, as a warning rather than as a threat. It was a dangerous job, they had, but people were too smart to cross the likes of them. They were connected in the Underworld. They knew people. And they had friends who would help them correct any attempts to cheat them out of their hard-earned cash.

Besides, the two who had contracted out the job were hardly in a position to put up a fuss. The older man was thin and sallow; Billy could break his elbow in a heartbeat. And the young blond kid couldn't have been eighteen. He dressed too nicely, and prissy boys couldn't handle getting their noses bloodied. And so they strode up to their employers without a fear in the world.

Their employers were each holding little sticks--thin, round, pieces of wood, maybe a foot or less in length. This was odd, but so long as Billy got paid, he didn't care what the men did with their wood sticks. "Half on delivery, guv," Joe called jauntily.

The sticks pointed. "_Avada Kedavra!_" cried the two simultaneously. This seemed an odd response, Billy thought. But a jet of green light hissed from the old guy's stick and smacked Joe in the sternum. Joe crumpled; Billy stared. The young blond kid looked frustrated.

"You have to mean it," the older man explained to the kid. "Reach in your heart, find all your hatred, and want this man dead."

The blond kid stared at Billy again. "_Avada Kedavra!_" he shouted, pointing his stick. Green fizz trickled from the bit of wood that the kid clutched. Billy's mind worked slowly through the implications. He was alive. Joe was not. Billy was a little thick, but when someone pointed what looked like a green death laser at him, he knew he didn't want to hang around. Billy ran. "_Avada Kedavra!_" shouted the kid again. And then, just before Billy reached the street, the older man repeated the words. "_Avada Kedavra._"

It was the last thing Billy heard. The older man walked over to the dead bodies and nudged one with his foot. He reached down and removed the pistol from the holster, weighing the weapon from hand to hand. A puzzled look passed over his face and he slipped the gun into his robe.

_It is only a matter of time_, Hermione thought late that night, as she stared up at the ceiling, _until the Death Eaters realize where we are staying. We're safe tonight--maybe._ A slight breeze wafted against her cheek. _Will we ever be safe again?_ Again, she felt a wind. She turned over onto her side, and her eyes widened. A winged silver ball, hovered in the air next to her. Silently, she reached out and took hold of it.


End file.
